


Dinner With the Red Devil

by MaxBetta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxBetta/pseuds/MaxBetta
Summary: I know what you're thinking.  Yes, I  used THAT line.  I couldn't resist!





	1. Chapter 1

It was a crisp autumn Saturday evening in the East side of Manhattan when Sansa Stark, the most feared food critic in all of New York City, was in an Uber, headed to a newly opened restaurant for dinner. Due to her scathing reviews and her striking red hair, those who worked in the food industry had given her the nickname “The Red Devil.” She was cold and unpleasant, with her reviews often making or breaking a restaurant. She had once put a French bakery out of business by proclaiming in her column that their croissants were not as flaky as they looked.

 

As she watched the street lights passing by outside her window, she couldn’t help but marvel at how much her life had changed in just one decade. Ten years ago, she was fresh out of college.  She had majored in culinary arts with a minor in journalism. All she had wanted her entire life was to be a chef, and her dream had finally come true.  She had started off as sous chef at Lannister’s Seafood House, working alongside head chef Joffrey Baratheon. He was in no way qualified for his position, but he was a close friend of the Lannister family, so when he casually mentioned that he thought it would be fun to be a chef someday, the job was handed to him on a silver platter.

 

The restaurant had been struggling, but thanks to Sansa’s recipes, such as her butter poached Maine lobster, it had risen to become the pride of the city.  That was, until Sansa walked out during dinner service one night.  She was prepping vegetables for the busy night ahead when Joffrey began harassing her.  For months he had been passing off her ideas and recipes as his own. Fed up with his behavior, she had asked him to come talk to her when he had the chance.  It didn’t go well. He denied everything and went crying to the Lannisters, who, in turn, accused her of being ungrateful. She’d had enough of being overworked and underappreciated. She untied her stained white apron, threw it on the floor, and left without ever looking back.

 

The experience had created an air of cynicism within her.  She loathed visiting new establishments and trying whatever pretentious dishes the pompous chef had come up with. In her mind, chefs nowadays weren’t interested in creating great food, they were more concerned with becoming a food celebrity. Screw a Michelin star restaurant, they wanted to sit on a panel on TV and go ten rounds with the other judges over which chef had created the best dish from a bottle of mustard, a blood sausage, and a handful of Swedish fish. The culinary arts were dying, and she was prepared for the funeral.

 

***

 

Chef Sandor Clegane had a reputation. He was known for being a typical temperamental chef, but his particularly volatile behavior led to an unusually high turnover rate in his restaurant staff.  The Hound & Bird had only been open for a week, and already several of his staff had quit. It was a lot of pressure working under Chef Clegane. He demanded perfection, and if his expectations were not met, he voiced his disappointment loud and clear.

 

Aside from the servers and supplemental kitchen staff who seemed to come and go, there were a couple of loyal employees that Chef Clegane worked with. Arya was Clegane’s sous chef.  They had a long, sometimes rocky history together, often screaming at one another right in the middle of dinner service, but their teamwork had created some of the most fantastic dishes of both their careers. Varys, an expert Maître D', had been with him for nearly a decade, often following him from establishment to establishment. They didn't speak much, but they had an understanding, and whatever it was, it worked.

 

Varys’ loyalty came in especially handy tonight, in fact. As soon as he’d heard a rumor that food critic Sansa Stark would be visiting The Hound & Bird that evening, he ran straight to the kitchen and informed the staff. Chef Clegane ordered that a small corner table was to be reserved and kept empty for the night so that she could be seated immediately upon her arrival. Other than that, there really wasn’t much that they could do to prepare.

 

***

 

It was a mere ten minutes before closing, and there had been no sign of Sansa Stark. The restaurant was beginning to quiet down for the night. Only one table remained, and the diners were in the process of arguing over who was going to pick up the check. Podrick, the head waiter, was feeling relieved that they had escaped the clutches of “The Red Devil” when suddenly the front door swung open. A tall, slender woman walked in, a flurry of fallen leaves behind her. She was wearing a navy blue peacoat with a white blouse underneath, and a pair of black trousers that showcased her almost comically long legs. Her red hair was twisted into a tight bun atop her head and a string of pearls graced her long neck. She plucked a wayward golden leaf from her hair and let it fall to the floor as she strode toward the hostess station.  No one spoke to her, they just stared, paralyzed with fear, their mouths agape.

 

“Table for one.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Yes, of course, mam” Podrick stammered as he grabbed a menu and gestured for Sansa to follow him.  Varys had seen her entrance and immediately ran to the kitchen to inform them of her presence.  As she walked through the restaurant toward her table, she noticed that there wasn’t anything particularly special about the atmosphere.  The tables were adorned with stiff white tablecloths, an industry standard. The artwork on the walls wasn’t anything to get excited over, and the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling were similar to ones she had seen at IKEA.

 

She reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a small handheld recorder. She held it a couple inches from her lips. “Interior lackluster.” When they finally reached her table, she sat, placing the recorder next to an empty wine glass. Podrick attempted to hand her the menu, but she was in the middle of removing her coat, so he set it on the table instead and hurriedly walked away. She scrutinized every page of the menu. “Amateur menu design” was her next note to herself.

 

After giving her a few minutes to peruse, Podrick returned to take her order. “I’ll start with the rabbit ale stew, and for my main I’ll have the rosemary roast chicken with brown butter mashed potatoes and sauteed bacon green beans.”

 

“And for dessert madam?”

 

“No dessert, just coffee when I’ve finished my entree.”

 

“Ah, yes. And may I recommend a wine pairing for your meal?  With the dishes you’ve chosen, we’d suggest a bottle of Dornish sour red. It’s fruit forward with subtle notes of…”

 

She cut him off mid-sentence.  “I’ll have a bottle of the Vale shiraz.”

 

“A lovely choice, madam. I’ll put your order in right away.” And with that, he took her menu and scurried off into the kitchen through a swinging metal door. He came back a moment later and poured her wine, then ran away so quickly that he almost tripped over his own shoes. She chuckled on the inside, always finding it humorous when people were terrified of her.

 

As she sipped her wine, she took a glance around the dining room and noticed that the place was completely empty. She hadn’t meant to arrive so close to closing time, but her Uber driver didn’t take the route she had suggested and they found themselves in the middle of a substantial amount of traffic.

 

A couple of minutes later, Podrick came through the swinging door with her starter, a steaming bowl of rabbit ale stew. He placed it on the table in front of her, gave her a whispered “Bon Appétit”, and disappeared once again. She gazed down at the bowl, taking in a whiff of the stew’s scent before digging in with her spoon. As she ate the stew, she took note of the taste, texture, temperature...every last detail. She mumbled something into her recorder, and then pushed the bowl away. Podrick swooped in, removing the bowl and returning it to the kitchen in a flash.

 

Not ten minutes later, Podrick arrived with her entree. Once again, he gently placed it on the table, and then vanished. Several of the kitchen staff were watching Sansa’s every move through a round window in the swinging metal door that led from the dining room to the kitchen.  They noted that she seemed to be poking around the plate with her fork, inspecting her meal before tasting anything. Chef Clegane refused to fawn over her.  She was a person, no different than him, no different than anyone else.

 

After a couple of green beans and a few forkfuls of the mashed potatoes, Sansa pushed her plate away, indicating that she was finished.  Podrick arrived at the table to find that although she seemingly had enjoyed her side dishes, her chicken had barely been touched.

 

“Was everything to your liking this evening, madam?”

 

“No.”

 

“Right. Any words for the chef then?”

 

“Tell the chef that the stew was bland, the garnish on my main dish was excessive, and my chicken was dry.”

 

“Yes, right away.  I’m very sorry madam.”  Podrick cowered as he shuffled toward the kitchen door with her mostly full plate in his hands.

 

“Well, let’s have it. “ Clegane spat. “What did the red devil say about her meal?”

 

“S-s-she, um. She said that she didn’t like the stew, or the garnish...or the chicken.” Podrick flinched in anticipation of what was to follow.

 

“What?!?!?!  What the...who does she...fuck it!  I’m going to give that bitch a piece of my mind.” Chef Clegane picked up the remains of her chicken with his bare hand and shoved the swinging door so hard that a gust of air blew a stack of papers off of a nearby counter. He approached her table with heavy footsteps, stopping mere inches away, raising the chicken high above his head and smashing it down onto the table’s surface with his huge hand, grease splattering onto the white tablecloth.

 

“There is nothing wrong with my chicken.  NOTHING! Who the hell do you think you are?”

 

“I’m a food critic.  And if you think there was nothing wrong with that chicken, perhaps you should go back to culinary school.  Part of being a chef is being able to take criticism, don’t you understand that?”

 

“I understand that if any more words come pouring out of your cunt mouth, I’m gonna have to smash every fucking chicken in this room.” He was absolutely seething.

 

She glanced back over her shoulder, then behind him, then right into his half scarred face. “It would appear that there are no other chickens in this room, but you can smash this one again if you’d like.”

 

“Fucking…” He had no words.  So he growled, like king of the fucking jungle, and made his way back into the kitchen, the poor metal door now barely attached to the hinges.

 

Sansa waited a few minutes to see if Podrick would come back with her coffee, but there was no sign of him. At last, he appeared.  At this point he was a sweaty, nervous wreck. He replaced her tablecloth with a fresh one and promised to be back with her coffee and the check. A few short moments later, he returned with a piping hot coffee and a small plate of something she hadn’t ordered.

 

“I didn’t order this, what is it?”

 

“Dessert, compliments of the chef, madam.  It’s an individual meyer lemon cake with lavender vanilla frosting.”

 

She looked down at the cake and then back up at him. “No it isn’t.”  He froze. “Do you know the difference between frosting and icing?” He shook his head. “Frosting is thick and fluffy and has to be spread. Icing is a thin glaze.” He nodded. “So, this is lemon cake with lavender vanilla icing. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, madam.”

 

She handed him enough cash to cover the bill and a mediocre tip. “Keep the change.”

 

He gave a silent bow of appreciation, and then he was gone.

 

Sansa picked up her fork and admired the cake in front of her.  She had to admit, it smelled like heaven. She took a bite, and the world seemed to fade around her. She instantly was taken back to the Summers of her childhood. She and her family would stay in a cabin at Camp Winterfell. Each year they would buy a crate of lemons and spend days in the kitchen putting them to use.  They made lemonade, lemon curd, lemon pies, and of course, lemon cake. She would often sneak a piece of cake during the afternoon, sitting on the ground by the lavender bushes to eat it. Her hands would be sticky and she’d get crumbs on her clothing, but she didn’t care, she savored every morsel.

 

Sansa came back to the present when she felt hot tears beginning to pool in her eyes. She suddenly felt awful for all of the terrible things she had said to the man who had made her this delightful confection. She had to apologize.  She waited for Podrick to show his face, hoping that she could ask to speak to the chef, but he never came out of the kitchen. She waited a bit longer, and then decided to take matters into her own hands.

 

She peered through the small window in the metal door to see that most of the kitchen lights had been turned off.  There wasn’t an employee in sight.  Had they left her there? She gently pushed the door open and took a step inside when she saw him. Sandor was sitting at a small wooden table that was set against the wall. His elbows were resting on the table top, and he had his face in his hands. Beside him was a half full bottle of scotch and an empty glass.

 

She sat down in the chair across from him. “May I join you?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Fair enough. I deserve that.” She grabbed a glass from the nearby shelf on the wall and poured herself a double. They sat like that, in total silence, for almost half an hour.

 

When he finally peeked through his fingers and saw she was still there, he gave a slight grunt of disapproval. “I suppose I should go down to the unemployment office tomorrow”, he sighed.  “Get the ball rolling, since my restaurant career will be over once your review is published.”

 

“Yes...about that.” She took a moment to find the right words.

 

“I went to culinary school because I wanted to be a chef. I wanted to be a chef, because I loved the idea of making people feel something through food. The experience of someone enjoying a dish of mine was so...pure and satisfying.”

 

He listened with interest, his brown eyes slightly softer than they had been just a moment ago.

 

“As a food critic, I miss out on that aspect. It’s all about the negative. There’s no joy.” She drank the last swallow of scotch that remained in her glass, wincing at the burn as it traveled down her throat. "It's time for a change." She opened the bottle of scotch again, this time pouring a double in both their glasses.

 

“Cheers.” She held up her glass and touched it to his, an expression almost resembling a smile on her face.

 

“What are you so happy about?”

 

“Well...have you ever heard of my ‘Diamond in the Rough’ column?” He shook his head. “Of course you haven’t, it hasn’t been written yet." She gave him a smug look of satisfaction. "Once a month, I am going to choose a restaurant to be featured in the paper. I’ll pick a place that hasn’t reached the level of popularity it deserves yet, do a full write up, and effectively put them on the map." She took another sip. "I’ve decided that this month, The Hound and Bird will be my first feature.”

 

Sandor smiled with only his eyes, taking a swig of his scotch. “This doesn’t mean we have to be pleasant toward each other, does it?”

 

She laughed. “If it does, we are so screwed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. Yes, I used THAT line. I couldn't resist!


End file.
